


Early Morning Prayer

by Umbrella_ella



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M, That's it, also known as how many times can i write the word love in different ways and not get tired of it, that's all this is, this is literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: "Jean loves the ways Lucien loves her, the way his hands move across the skin of her full hips, she loves the way he smiles up at her— but most of all, she loves watching him wake in morning light, when the pink sun casts a hue of golds and reds across his countenance."A post-telemovie snippet of Jean Blake's life with Lucien.





	Early Morning Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> This has already been posted on tumblr, but I thought I should post it here too.

Jean enjoys waking before Lucien does, on the bright days when soft light streams in, casting light onto the long-hidden corners of the studio, now their secret hiding place. The light catches on Lucien’s face in those rare moments, and he looks like he had when he was younger, in the photographs that Doctor Blake the elder had displayed until he died; relaxed and worry-free. Jean’s fingers itch to card through the mass of curls atop her husband’s head and trace her name into his skin (Jean Blake now, and the thrill of it sends giddiness rocketing through her), because he is hers now, and she his, and that is how they were meant to be– hopelessly entwined with each other from the very first.

Her fingers instead, find the muscles of his bare chest, and she feels a blush arise when she sees the raised lines streaking down the plane of his abdomen in perfect contrast with the way her fingertips trace careful, nonsensical patterns in the sparse hairs that litter her husband’s chest. The feel of them, downy beneath her fingers, is enough to make her want to wake him. Lucien sleeps better with her there, however, though his late nights don’t disappear entirely. She nestles closer and listens to his low, deep breaths, and relishes the way his arm slings itself around her middle, pulling her in so that her legs are touching his and her hips are pressing into his side.

Jean loves the ways Lucien loves her, the way his hands move across the skin of her full hips, she loves the way he smiles up at her— but most of all, she loves watching him wake in morning light, when the pink sun casts a hue of golds and reds across his countenance.

It’s been so long since she’d woken up next to someone, that Jean has almost forgotten the way it feels to be held, to be cherished in an unconscious movement of two hearts drawn together. Even with Christopher, it’d been different; he’d never held her, not really, not unless they were sated and the adrenaline was coursing through them and their hearts were pumping viciously fast, skin far too slick with sweat to warrant any contact beyond the first few minutes of afterglow. Afterwards, Christopher would turn away, pressing a half-hearted kiss into her curls, and Jean was left alone. Here, though, in Lucien’s arms, in his strong grip, Jean feels safe, loved, and cherished beyond her duties as a wife and lover.

She remembers suddenly, how she’d felt that night in the kitchen so long ago, when he’d enclosed her in his arms and kissed her with an intensity that set her aflame, and she flushes with the thought of what she’d done afterwards, sneaking downstairs like a teenager, and she’s glad that now, this is theirs. These moments of romance, of desire, and lust and everything that had built between them, are theirs and no one dares to take them away because they’ve been through too much and their world was not built for them, but by them. So it’s here, in their bed, in their life, that Jean feels warm and safe enough to tell him secrets that she’s told no one before. Jean feels loved and treasured and all of the things he’d whispered into her ear on their wedding night, decorating her skin with promises of pleasure and a lifetime of love and adoration.

She still laughs at the novelty of being Mrs. Blake. She casts a glance, automatically it seems, down to where the ring glints on her finger, and she purses her lips against the smile that threatens to bloom.

Jean loves watching him, because here, now, with her as the only witness to these moments, Lucien is at peace. The furrow of his brow, the tightening frown that tugs at his lips, and the exhaustion that sinks into him, burrowing deeper and deeper at the thought of every wrongdoing in the world— it’s all gone, melted away in the night. Jean likes to think that it’s her that does that, that it’s her work-worn hands, and soft lips that kiss and soothe each worry away.

Perhaps it is.


End file.
